Brisby snatched up another one. "This?"
"Uh, it looks like a slaver that called at Jubbulpore twice a year."
"Neither one," Brisby said savagely, "is anything of the sort. These are recognition patterns out of my files -- of ships built by our biggest shipbuilder. If you saw them in Jubbulpore, they were either copies, or bought from us!"
Thorby considered it. "They build ships there."
"So I've been told. But Colonel Baslim reported ships' serial numbers -- how he got them I couldn't guess; maybe you can. He claims that the slave trade is getting help from our own worlds!" Brisby looked unbearably disgusted.
Thorby reported regularly to the Cabin, sometimes to see Brisby, sometimes to be interviewed under hypnosis by Dr. Krishnamurti. Brisby always mentioned the search for Thorby's identity and told him not to be discouraged; such a search took a long time. Repeated mention changed Thorby's attitude about it from something impossible to something which was going to be true soon; he began thinking about his family, wondering who he was? -- it was going to be nice to know, to be like other people.
Brisby was reassuring himself; he had been notified to keep Thorby off sensitive work the very day the ship jumped from Hekate when he had hoped that Thorby would be identified at once. He kept the news to himself, holding fast to his conviction that Colonel Baslim was never wrong and that the matter would be cleared up.
When Thorby was shifted to Combat Control, Brisby worried when the order passed across his desk -- that was a "security" area, never open to visitors -- then he told himself that a man with no special training couldn't learn anything there that could really affect security and that he was already using the lad in much more sensitive work. Brisby felt that he was learning things of importance -- that the Old Man, for example, had used the cover personality of a one-legged beggar to hide two-legged activities... but had actually been a beggar; he and the boy had lived only on alms. Brisby admired such artistic perfection -- it should be an example to other agents.
But the Old Man always had been a shining example.
So Brisby left Thorby in combat control. He omitted to make permanent Thorby's acting promotion in order that the record of change in rating need not be forwarded to BuPersonnel. But he became anxious to receive the dispatch that would tell him who Thorby was.
His executive was with him when it came in. It was in code, but Brisby recognized Thorby's serial number; he had written it many times in reports to "X" Corps. "Look at this, Stinky! This tells us who our foundling is. Grab the machine; the safe is open."
Ten minutes later they had processed it; it read:
-- "NULL BESULT FULL IDENTSEARCH BASLIM THORBY GDSMN THIRD. AUTH & DRT TRANSFER ANY RECEIVING STATION RETRANSFER HEKATE INVESTIGATION DISPOSITION -- CHFBUPEBS."
"Stinky, ain't that a mess?"
Stancke shrugged. "It's how the dice roll, boss."
"I feel as if I had let the Old Man down. He was sure the kid was a citizen."
"I misdoubt there are millions of citizens who would have a bad time proving who they are. Colonel Baslim may have been right -- and still it can't be proved."
"I hate to transfer him. I feel responsible."
"Not your fault."
"You never served under Colonel Baslim. He was easy to please... all he wanted was one-hundred-percent perfection. And this doesn't feel like it."
"Quit blaming yourself. You have to accept the record."
"Might as well get it over with. Eddie! I want to see Ordnanceman Baslim."
Thorby noticed that the Skipper looked grim -- but then he often did. "Acting Ordnanceman Third Class Baslim reporting, sir."
"Thorby..."
"Yes, sir?" Thorby was startled. The Skipper sometimes used his first name because that was what he answered to under hypnosis -- but this was not such a time.
"The identification report on you came."
"Huh?" Thorby was startled out of military manners. He felt a surge of joy -- he was going to know who he was!
"They can't identify you." Brisby waited, then said sharply, "Did you understand?"
Thorby swallowed. "Yes, sir. They don't know who I am. I'm not... anybody."
"Nonsense! You're still yourself."
"Yes, sir. Is that all, sir? May I go?"
"Just a moment. I have to transfer you back to Hekate." He added hastily, seeing Thorby's expression, "Don't worry. They'll probably let you serve out your enlistment if you want to. In any case, they can't do anything to you; you haven't done anything wrong."
"Yes, sir," Thorby repeated dully.
Nothing and nobody -- He had a blinding image of an old, old nightmare... standing on the block, hearing an auctioneer chant his description, while cold eyes stared at him. But he pulled himself together and was merely quiet the rest of the day. It was not until the compartment was dark that he bit his pillow and whispered brokenly, "Pop... oh, Pop!"
The Guards uniform covered Thorby's legs, but in the showers the tattoo on his left thigh could be noticed. When this happened, Thorby explained without embarrassment what it signified. Responses varied from curiosity, through half-disbelief, to awed surprise that here was a man who had been through it -- capture, sale, servitude, and miraculously, free again. Most civilians did not realize that slavery still existed; Guardsmen knew better.
No one was nasty about it.
But the day after the null report on identification Thorby encountered "Decibel" Peebie in the showers. Thorby did not speak; they had not spoken much since Thorby had moved out from under Peebie, even though they sat at the same table. But now Peebie spoke. "Hi, Trader!"
"Hi." Thorby started to bathe.
"What's on your leg? Dirt?"
"Where?"
"On your thigh. Hold still. Let's see."
"Keep your hands to yourself!"
"Don't be touchy. Turn around to the light. What is it?"
"It's a slaver's mark," Thorby explained curtly.
"No foolin'? So you're a slave?"
"I used to be."
"They put chains on you? Make you kiss your master's foot?"
"Don't be silly!"
"Look who's talking! You know what, Trader boy? I heard about that mark -- and I think you had it tattooed yourself. To make big talk. Like that one about how you blasted a bandit ship."
Thorby cut his shower short and got out.
At dinner Thorby was helping himself from a bowl of mashed potatoes. He heard Peebie call out something but his ears filtered out "Decibel's" endless noise.
Peebie repeated it "Hey, Slave! Pass the potatoes! You know who I mean! Dig the dirt out of your ears!"
Thorby passed him the potatoes, bowl and all, in a flat trajectory, open face of the bowl plus potatoes making perfect contact with the open face of Decibel.
The charge against Thorby was "Assaulting a Superior Officer, the Ship then being in Space in a Condition of Combat Readiness." Peebie appeared as complaining witness.
Colonel Brisby stared over the mast desk and his jaw muscles worked. He listened to Peebie's account: "I asked him to pass the potatoes... and he hit me in the face with them."
"That was all?"
"Well, sir, maybe I didn't say please. But that's no reason --"
"Never mind the conclusions. The fight go any farther?"
"No, sir. They separated us."
"Very well. Baslim, what have you to say for yourself?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Is that what happened?"
"Yes, sir."
Brisby stopped to think, while his jaw muscles twitched. He felt angry, an emotion he did not permit himself at mast -- he felt let down. Still, there must be more to it.